Thursday, April 17, 2014

Crescent City Blues

Crescent City Blues

I could see the Mississippi out my window
as it marched slowly to the gulf. The blood
of the heartland was pouring into the sea
and I was drinking scotch on the 46th floor.
The end of the day, the end of the week
in an another city and another hotel room.
I refreshed my glass, spun the amber and ice
with my finger as I moved back to the window.

The sorrowful whistle of a river boat resonated
off the glass in low tone that seemed apropos.
New Orleans is sad from this vista, like most
party girls, she doesn’t look quite as alluring
in the sober light of day. As I looked to the north,
to the skies above Lake Pontchartrain, I could see
the hoary clouds of a thunderstorm. Intermittent
lightening scratched the air and illuminated
the squall’s dark tentacles as they fell to the lake.

The sun was retreating to the west pulling a curtain
of darkness in its wake. There’s an emptiness in the
night, when you are alone in a strange city, it climbs
into bed with you and whispers tiny lies in your ear.
Two glasses down and half a bottle to go, while below
the heartland just keeps pouring blood into the sea.

SMG

Wednesday, April 16, 2014

Idolatry

Idolatry

Manhattan is a grey and  grand alter to a color-
less god that I  no longer care to worship I sing
hallelujah  with  the bums in  Madison  Square
and my tithes go for pigeon feed and a copy of
the  newspaper  said  God was dead  and  I was
lost but then I found that  the subway was che-
aper  than a cab  and a helluva lot  faster in tra-
ffic St. Anselm  told  me  he  could  think of no
place  better  but  I can’t begin to conceive that
philosophy can be easily seduced by Wall Street
and all night bars only to wake with a headache
and rumpled clothes make the man I’m just an-
other temple whore a little past  my expiration
with  small  apartment and very high rent for a
place on  the  Jersey  side  of the Hudson could
save me a few  bucks and would  afford me an
unobstructed view of that grand and grey alter
we call Manhattan

SMG

Tuesday, April 15, 2014

Sometimes there’s just no poetry and...

Sometimes there’s just no poetry
and…

you sit and watch the clock and the
steady movement of the hands slo-
wly reach  out  in search  of a drink
is  as  close  to  love as  you can  get
lost in the faces of strangers as they
pass  by  on  the  street signs speak
foreign words and  remind  you of
how far you are from home is only
a memory fading like bright colors
in the sun faints  again  at the  app-
roach of the darkness does not care
that you are alone in this room wat-
ch
ing the hands of the clock.


SMG

Monday, April 14, 2014

Learning to Drive

Sunday, April 13, 2014

Winter in Midtown

Winter Night in Midtown

34th Street
is glazed in sleet
and the reflected lights
of the city dissolve
in the wetness.

New York
has no face
on nights like these,
just umbrella bobs
and collars turned
against the damp
and chill.

The city is a poem
and winter is writing
a dark new verse
not fully understood
until morning reveals
the metaphor

SMG

Saturday, April 12, 2014

Cookie Jar

Cookie Jar

The years  like cookies  from  a jar
are consumed without thought we
move through  the days and nights
half of each lost to sleep pass more
quickly than the days spent in want-
ing are marked by motion devoid of
meaning  defines  the madness  that
is this life  often  not  savored  until
the years like cookies from a jar are
almost gone

SMG

Friday, April 11, 2014

Ladies Night at the Bauhaus

Ladies Night at the Bauhaus

The  forms of  these women  tend to
fail  the  function test but the
aesth-
etics  and  hedonists  never 
did  sit
together  in school I let Ezra
pound
modernism  into  my  brain  until 
I
questioned everything I learned on

Sunday Kandinsky waxed  theosop-
hical
while feverishly waving  a pro-
tractor
and paintbrush  in the air of
post-war
Germany’s zeitgeist ornam-
entation gave way to the  functional
man  will 
occasionally  impractically
fall for the aesthetic form of a woman
with no
regard for the school to which
she belongs.

SMG

Thursday, April 10, 2014

Streets of Philadelphia

Streets of Philadelphia

Adam Raised a Cain
Hungry Heart-- Fire
Tougher Than the Rest

Better Days
Growing Up
Blood Brothers
The Ties That Bind

Eyes on the Prize
My Beautiful Reward
Blinded By the Light
If I Should Fall Behind

My Best Was Never Good Enough
Two Faces-- Worlds Apart
Murder Incorporated
Souls of the Departed

This Hard Land
The Promised Land
Secret Garden --Jungleland

This Life-- Life Itself
Kingdom of Days

Jesus Was an Only Son

Bruce Springsteen & SMG

This is a “found poem” loosely based on the D’Verse Poet’s writing prompt found here. Each phrase is an unedited Bruce Springsteen song title arranged to (hopefully) form a poem of sorts.

Wednesday, April 9, 2014

Notes on Poetry Composition


Notes on Poetry Composition


When I need to make sense of it all, I go back to the beginning.
I throw out the poetry text books and all my lecture notes.
I ignore the voice in my head that keeps repeating “imagery,
cadence, structure and rhyme”.

I go back to Bluebird and Roll the Dice. I go back to that place
where my passion was born, where the muse first gave me a wink
and the gods showed me words that could kick like a mule
or kiss me like no woman I had ever known.

I forget about submission guidelines and contributors’ copies.
I pour myself a tall glass of cheap scotch cut with ice
and drink until I don’t give a shit, until I’m ready to wipe my ass
with rejection letters and can vomit up years of advice.

It’s then that I remember the women I’ve fucked
and the ones that have fucked me. I think about the pain
and failure that's refined me, then I take another sip and say
“but I’m still here”, and I smile at the gentle tinkle of ice and glass.

SMG

Tuesday, April 8, 2014

Pressure Cooker

Pressure Cooker

The boiling point for water,
at sea level, is two hundred
and twelve degrees Fahrenheit.
Under pressure the boiling point
will rise at a scale corresponding
with an increase in pounds
per square inch or kilopascal.

I’m not really sure what
the boiling point of faith is
but there would appear to be
an inverse relationship
with an increase in pressure.
Gods and their minions tend to boil
over easier and with more frequency
as the pressure of life’s uncertainty
rises.

Force equals mass times
acceleration. The force required
for flying metal to separate
human limbs from the body
varies based upon the size and age
of the human in question.
The break point for an eight year old
is less than that of an exchange student
or an adult woman but all will break
if sufficient force is applied.

Nails, ball bearings and gunpowder,
ignited in a pressurized environment,
will achieve the required velocity
and generate more than enough force
to break most humans along with
most of my faith in humankind.

SMG